


Butterfly Ink

by Oboeist3



Category: Hetalia - Fandom, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Fluffy, Human AU, all i write is fluff, mori girl canada, tattoo artist ned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 19:03:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1910226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oboeist3/pseuds/Oboeist3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a small town in Pennsylvania, where the winters were cold and the slang unrecognizable, there was a tattoo parlor. It was not a particularly unique one, except in one manner. It was the meeting place of one Lars Brouwer and Madeline Williams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Butterfly Ink

In a small town in Pennsylvania, where the winters were cold and the slang unrecognizable, there was a tattoo parlor. It was not a particularly unique parlor in many respects, the building was a standard strip mall block, set up like many other tattoo parlors across the nation, a glowing neon sign in the window proclaiming it either open or not. But there was one thing that made this parlor different from it’s numerous cousins. Lars Brouwer worked there.

 

Lars was a young man, tall and built, with hair he put up with gel in the vague shape of a tulip. His arms were heavily inked, each sweep of black and color a story he’d tell with a little prying, and maybe some alcohol. He was a reserved person to most, quiet, a little bit scary. But to a treasured few, he’d open up, and ne’er was there a person who could royally change your worldview than him.   

 

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

 

His parents had moved to this town in the middle of nowhere from the Netherlands, and indeed he had grown up surrounded more by a country he never knew than the one he lived in. The harsh Dutch of his father and smooth, lyrical French of his mother felt a lot more real than the English around him. He had trouble clicking over the gears sometimes, remembering that people didn’t understand what was second nature to him. Even now, years later, when he let emotions get under his skin or wasn’t thinking too hard, the valve would click over to Dutch.

 

He was a self-proclaimed ‘bad kid’, always getting into fights over lunch money or that jerk that made fun of the accent he could never quite drop, no matter how much his English improved. When he came home with bruises and a bloody nose to an empty house, his younger sister would sigh and fix him up, and if his parents were home for dinner they’d never comment, too busy trying to keep them from losing the dirty place they called home.

 

Lars learnt quickly to avoid luxuries and pinch pennies, by the age of eight he was already tricking kids out of their lunch money with card tricks and illusions, made investments in lemonade stands and mowed lawns, carefully held onto the profits, sliding the money onto his father’s desk without a word. He didn’t say anything either, but the next morning there would be something, a sweet or a small toy as a thank you.

 

But over the years, it didn’t get any better, any easier. His mom and dad still worked the same long jobs, same shitty house. The kids around him never lowered their fears, and he started noticing the parents that looked at him with disgust, like he was a rat and not a human being. Even with his better understanding of the work, school was hard for him, and after a few weeks of patience, the teachers gave up trying to help him. He was the big, dumb foreigner, a self isolated freak, the one who would kill you if you even looked too long at his sister.

 

He started skipping in year 10. One day at first, just to clear his head, just to get away from the toxicity of the place. Only it was addictive. One became two, then three. His sister tried his best to talk some sense into him, but the thought of being trapped between concrete walls from eight to three made him sick.

 

Of course, with no school, he had to find something to take his interest. He started with hanging out at the library, reading things that actually interested him, but it wasn’t enough. He was too young to get a job then, nor had he any qualifications. So he did something he wasn’t proud of. He smoked. Just cigarettes mostly, being arrested for illegal drugs did not appeal to him, even when he was a messed up teen. Like the skipping, it was small at first. One a day, then two. Eventually the money that slid on his father’s desk was slid over the counter for another pack. But funnily enough, those little sticks of nicotine that ruined him, also inadvertently saved him.

 

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

 

Lars was 16 at that point, a practical dropout, addicted to nicotine. Spent his days in alleys and parks, didn’t look his family in the eyes. Let his thoughts about the weariness of existing all build up until every few minutes he had to remember why it was important. Mostly it boiled down to needing to look after Bella. But even that was starting to wear thin.

 

Today, he smoked behind the stripmall, the one with the piercing place and the cheesy German-themed bar. He was on number three, the burnt out ones at his feet and almost out on this one. The Dutch-American was about to toss it when he saw a man leave one of the buildings. He was grumbling, clearly angry, running his fingers through his graying hair.

 

"Stupid goddamn newbie." he caught him saying as he walked past. It gave Lars pause for a moment before he picked up his lighter, flicking the flame with ease and returning to his drug induced relief. He took a drag and blew it out through his nose. It stung when he first tried, but he had a lot of practice. However, a second later and it was snatched from his lips, by the man he thought had left.

 

"Hey!" he said, half in surprise, half in annoyance.

 

"You shouldn’t be smoking these." said the middle-aged man. Lars sighed, another judgmental adult.

 

"I know that." he said, because he did, he just needed them to function now. He hated how his teeth were slightly yellowed and breath was a little harder to get. He hated the way the man behind the counter looked at him and smiled, because he knew he’d be back. He hated how Bella wouldn’t hug him anymore because he smelled like smoke.

 

"If it’s relief you’re looking for, I can show you a real high." he promised. His voice was softer now, kinder than Lars had heard directed towards him in a long while. It piqued his interest, that was for sure.

 

"Legal?" he said cautiously, and the man laughed loudly.

 

"I should hope so. Otherwise I would be out of a job!" He held out a hand. "Trust me on this. You won’t regret it."

 

And for some reason, Lars did trust this man, the man who had just walked up and yanked away his  anchoring addiction from his lips. He didn’t know why, but he did, and common sense was not there to stop him from following. He took the hand, stood up, and followed him back to the building he’d left. A tattoo parlor as it happened.

 

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

 

Lars felt a wave of nostalgia as he remember that day, meeting his now boss, and the many that followed after. Over the days turned weeks and months, he was taught the trade, drawing until his hands hurt and he could do detail so fine most people could not see it. Then onto chicken and pig skin, doing small, simple tattoos. And even though he never brought any money in at that point, the owner, Erasmus, always gave him a salary to take home. It had saved them more often than he cared to admit.

 

The artists were kind to him, unlike those teachers he’d had that only smiled out of obligation, the ones that saw him as nothing more than a miscreant, a lazy waste of their resources. They cared about him, not just as a future worker, but a friend. They would always smile at him, ask him about his life and listen to his problems, no matter how stupid. Teased him about his crushes and let him cry when they inevitably rejected him. Those group of five or six people became his net, the thing that saved him from hitting rock bottom.

 

At 18 he was officially hired to the parlor, with cake and fanfare and general embarrassment. He got a tattoo in honor of it, a design he’d drawn himself. Two tulips, one for each forearm. The left one was red, the right white. The exact symbolism to him was a secret he never told, unlike the ones that joined in years after.

 

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————-

 

Now we approach Lars’ current situation. Twenty-three and working full-time for the parlor. He wasn’t rich, but not poor either. Most of all, he was happy. He replaced the cigarettes with patches and gum, gained some friends and a better outlook on life. He loved his work, even with the scorn it earned him and the dubious support of his parents.

 

Erasmus was right about the ‘high’ it brought. He found over the years that when people used their body as a canvas, some of the most beautiful and meaningful art was created. Sure there were some that just used it as a way to defy their parents, or in order to fit into a group or a clique. But even they put some thought into it.

 

He recalled a composer who came, admittedly intoxicated, and confessed he’d always wanted to wear his love of music on his skin, but his social standing and strict parents prevented him from doing so, even now after their death. He’d handed Lars a paper, folded and refolded over and over again, but the design was still intact, a treble clef. He had told him to, “Do it now, while I retain my sanity.” And though Lars wasn’t fond of inking a drunk, he could see the man was convinced in this choice long before he came here.

 

With the help of a more experienced artist, they curled the contours of the language around his left shoulder and down the skinny contorts of his back to just above the midriff. Once it was all said and done, the man was wincing , obviously in a great deal of pain, but the smile that curled on his lips  as he saw it in the mirror seemed to ease it, breathing out a danke before paying the price.

 

The next day the same man showed up, now in far richer clothes, and briefly Lars thought himself out of a job. But instead of being angry, he stared asking questions, how long it would take to heal, and the earliest he could return for another one. Dumbfounded, he told him, and in a few weeks time a base clef joined its cousin, this time with complete sobriety. (The personal tip the man gave him was sufficient to provide for his sparse luxuries for almost a year.)

 

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

 

"Hello Laaaarrsss. You in there?" came a voice, snapping him out of his scattered reverie. He had a  tendency to drift at times, so much so his fellow artists would tease him. As they did everything else. But it was all in good jest. The voice was from Tiina, a pleasant girl of Finnish origins, with short blonde hair and a plump, round little body. She was also the main artist, twenty-eight years old and about the gayest person he’d ever met. (In all senses of the word.)

 

"Ja, sorry." he said, focusing back on reality. It was a Wednesday though, their slowest day, around four in the afternoon if the clock wasn’t broken again. The nail it was on had a passive aggressive relationship with it.

 

"It’s no biggy." she assured him. "You’ve just been zoned out for nearly fifteen minutes. I wanted to check you weren’t dead or something." she assured him, earning a scoff and a roll of the eyes from him.

 

“Oh yea, and some girl called and said she’d be coming in today at 4:30. I figured you could do her.” she said, adding a wink at the end. Tiina made it abundantly clear of her intentions to hook Lars up with someone, saying he needed someone to keep him from being a complete loner.

 

“Tiina…” he groaned, not believing he needed anyone. His relationships never seemed to work out, regardless of gender, or lack there-of.

 

“What? I may not be a genius, Mr. Brouwer, but I know when someone needs to get some. And you definitely do.” she said, accenting it with a huff.

 

He might have argued with her a bit longer had not the bell on the door rang, causing him to look over, and was promptly shocked out of thinking about anything.

 

The girl was beyond beautiful. She had medium length blonde hair with a little pink flower on the side, wide dark blue eyes with long lashes under terribly geeky wire frames, layers of Earth-toned clothing accented by a long, beige skirt with little white flats. He found himself wondering what it would be like to brush that hair before leaning down and kissing her, how laughter might fall from red lips or a smile crinkle her face. Lars felt these feelings hit his chest like a train, nay, a supersonic jet. Faster than the sound of her soft little voice.  

 

“Excuse me.” she said, looking over at the pair with a hint of a smile, just a sliver that made his heart pound a little faster. “My name is Maddie. I called you guys?”

 

“Of course. Right this way, Maddie!” said Tiiana, who had somehow magically moved to the front to lead her back while Lars stood in awe of the beauty that had graced his work. He saw a smirk on the Finn’s face, she hadn’t missed that look of awe, oh no.

 

“This is Lars, sweetie. He’ll be doing your tattoo today.” she explained.

 

“Hello Lars.” she said, and dear God the way she said his name made him want to turn into a pile of goo. It was strange, he’d never had such strong feelings for…anyone before. Especially not this soon.

 

“Uh, hallo.” he said in response, feeling like wincing at how strong his accent sounded. “So, do you have anything in mind?” he asked, focusing on making each word sound right.

 

She didn’t seem phased by it though, smiling a little and nodding. “Yes, I heard you did detailed designs, so I was hoping you could do a butterfly, right here.” she said, circling her upper arm, the left one, right below the shoulder. “I’ll take my jacket off first, of course.” she added, blushing a little. It was so damn adorable, it put bunnies to shame.

 

“I can do that.” he said, mind already thinking of what would suit her best. “Any specific kind? I might need a reference if that’s so.” he said, slipping into his professional skin, thankfully. He wasn’t sure he could ‘keep his cool’ around her otherwise.

 

“Something…natural, not too bright. Least skippers are quite pretty, but whatever you think is best.” she said, leaving the trust in his hands like it wasn’t one of the greatest things he’d ever received.

 

“Alright then, if you wouldn’t mind lying down.” he said, turning his back on Maddie for a moment to start sterilizing his tools,taking the single use ones from the back. Luckily he wouldn’t need too much color, he was thinking brownish orange, with a hint of gold on the tips.

 

By the time he had gotten it all prepared, she was sitting in the chair, her jacket and outer shirt hung from the back and her arms gripping the rests tightly. She seemed a bit jittery now, a phenomenon he was all too used to.

 

“Are you ready?” he asked, having a swab to wipe down the area before he got to the inking itself. She seemed to want to try and say yes, but her head shook no. Lars felt awful seeing Maddie like that, even though he didn’t really know her. “Hey, it’ll be ok. I promise. The pain won’t be a lot.” Still, she seemed nervous.

 

“You know, when I first got these,” he said, indicating the tulips of his forearms. “I was nervous too. But trust me, everyone here knows what they’re doing.” The words fell out before he could stop himself, far softer and kinder than his usual reassurances. He just couldn’t let her feel scared.  

 

Maddie seemed to relax a little at that, the tension falling from her shoulders as she took a deep breath, in and out. “Ok. I can do this.” she said to herself, trying to keep herself steady. “Can you explain how it works though? I think it will help.” she confessed, and Lars was only too happy to oblige her.

 

He explained how he would start with outlining in black ink, showing the drill and the tip still sealed in its plastic bag. Then he’d go over it with a shading one, usually black but colored in some case. It was also where he’d do any detailed work. After that it was a just a matter of coloring it in. It wasn’t painless, obviously, but he assured her that it was fairly quick, and as long as everything went well, would stop hurting entirely after a few days.

 

“There might be some blood and plasma as well.” he added, almost an afterthought. “So if that makes you queasy, I would wait until the end to look.” She nodded, glad for everything the man had done to help ease her.

 

“I think I’m ready now.” she told him, no longer shaking or tensed up. “But…could you keep talking to me as you work?” she asked, blushing a little. Lar’s voice was just so soothing, with the hint of an accent she couldn’t quite place. It made her feel a lot safer and at ease in this situation.

 

Lars was a bit surprised by the request, but he’d be hard pressed to say no to anything this girl asked of him. “Of course. Whatever makes you feel better.” he said, feeling a bit cheesy after, but he meant it. “What do you want me to talk about?” he asked.

 

“Just anything.” she said, her eyes slipping closed. “Whatever comes to mind.”

 

And so he did. With the hum of the machine he let his words spill out with it, unplanned, thoughts and feelings and memories. He told her about his past, though a simpler, less sad version, about his sister who was training to be a chocolatier out in Switzerland. (By some ridiculous scholarship, no less.) He told her about his two best friends, Gilbert and Dan, the former the bartender at a the cheesy German bar in the same stripmall, the latter the main piercing guy next door. They’d gotten into some rather wild shenanigans over the years, and Lars was always the one who had to get them out of it.

 

Maddie wasn’t silent either, she talked about her own life, her twin sister Amelia who had spent her high school years planning to become a professional volleyball player but dumped it to focus on her degree in Aerospace Engineering, her best friend Aymee, a large Cuban girl who had a nasty tendency to confuse her with her sister, whom she hated deeply. In fact, the confusion was common from a lot of people, and it left her with some pretty awkward situations to get out of. But Maddie still cared deeply for her sister. However, mostly she talked about how she’d become a Mori girl.

 

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

 

She discovered the lifestyle shortly after leaving high school, her with not nearly so much a plan as her sister. She wanted to go into art, but her parents did not. They wanted her to do something ‘productive’ with her life, like a doctor, or an engineer. Just like Amelia. With all the stress and arguing, she was miserable. “It was hard to want to exist.” she confessed, much as Lars had felt in his own teenage years. Then she’d met up with a mori girl in her favorite coffee shop.

 

She’d been crying, as she had been a lot at that time, hiding her sniffles in a big red sweater Amelia had given her, when she heard a voice ask her. “Are you okay?” She looked up, red rimmed eyes peering at the stranger before her. The stranger was a young Asian women, with short black hair and narrow brown eyes peering at her with concern. She was wearing a pale pink dress with a brown overcoat and a green and white scarf, a bit overdressed she had thought, for the summer

 

“I’m fine.” Maddie told her, giving a weak smile. “Just…got a lot on my mind.” That was usually enough to dispel any worried people, no one wanted to listen to a pity parade.

 

“What kind of things?” asked the woman, taking the chair across from her.

 

It took her a moment to think of a response to that, not used to anyone caring about her feelings. “Well…what I’m going to do with my life, mostly. What I want to study in school, what my parents want.” The stupid tears were back at the thought of their disapproval. “I don’t know if I can stand up to them much longer.” Her parents could be a force of nature when it came to these sort of things.

 

“A parent who does not stand in their children’s shoes is no longer a parent. They are a tyrant.” said the women, with a certain wisdom that made her seem older. “Do not let them control you too much. You are your own person. They should realize that.” she said, bending down and getting something from her bag.

 

“If your self esteem needs some help, try reading this.” said the women, handing Maddie a magazine with the word Spoon written on the front. “It may seem like just a style, but it helps, I promise. The world seems a bit brighter through the eyes of a forest girl.” she said, and she gave her a kiss on the cheek before leaving Maddie alone with a magazine and some new thoughts.

 

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

 

After that, life became a lot more enjoyable. The women was right, it was more than just a style, or at least, just a clothing style. It changed the way she viewed everything. Instead of trying to struggle with her parents, she stated outright she was going to art school, with or without their support. Needless to say, it surprised them a little when their meek daughter became so confident.

 

Life as a student wasn’t always easy either, but whenever school was too much she would go out and get some tea before taking a walk in the park, or just around the neighborhood, marveling at how simply complex nature could be. Recently she had been saving her courage enough to get of nature on her in a more permanent manner, a butterfly, she thought, would work perfectly.

 

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

 

By the time Maddie had finished up her tale, Lars was finishing up the colors on aforementioned tattoo, smiling a little as he saw how well it had turned out. Another rag wiped off the blood and clear plasma as he tapped her shoulder. “It’s done.” he told her, and she blinked open her eyes, letting out a gasp as she saw his handiwork.

 

It was as if a butterfly had gone and landed on her arm, the detail was so great. The wings were a soft blend of brown and orange, with black seeping through it in a way that was both orderly and chaotic, just as it was. It was resting on a leaf, half-orange, half-red, and even though she hadn’t asked for it, it suited the design so well she couldn’t complain.

 

“Thank you.” she breathed out, and though Lars had been thanked by so many people, there was none quite like that he had just heard.

 

“Graag gedaan.” he said, the gears were stuck again. “I mean, you’re welcome.” he said, blushing. He was doing that a lot around this beautiful being. “Let me get a bandage for that.” he said, since he didn’t want it to get infected. Maddie wasn’t fond of the idea of losing sight of the masterpiece so soon, but she remembered his explanation and knew it was all for her own good.

 

But she found her heart aching at the thought of this being all she ever saw of this man, the Dutch-American with the tulip tattoos who listened more than anyone else ever had. And had it been her a few years ago, she might have left it at that, let him slip away, but today she felt more true to herself than perhaps she ever had. So she reached down to the pocket of her coat and pulled out a pen, waiting for Lars to return.

 

He did a moment later, with a roll of white gaze that he unrolled carefully around the area, tucking it under at the end. Lars was so focused in his quest of not hurting her while doing so, he was unaware of the pen writing a very different kind of ink onto his arm. “All done.” he proclaimed, helping her up. He lead her to the front and calculated the cost of her tattoo, though he was tempted to not charge her a dime. But his own stingy nature and the threat of his boss prevented him.

 

“Thank you so much.” she said again as she slipped on her coat, scrunching up her face as a little pain shot up her arm. But it was so very worth it.

 

“You’re welcome, Maddie. I assure you, it’s not a big deal. This is my job after all.” he said, just wanting to drag out these last seconds with her before she vanished, and he was left with these feelings he wouldn’t be able to follow. It was painful, and yet he didn’t regret one single minute of their time together. He only wished there could be more.

 

“That doesn’t make it any less amazing. Although, for such a detailed tattoo artist, you are pretty unobservant.” she said, puzzling him, and he guessed it showed.“You’ve got some new ink on your arm.” she said as she walked out the door, and within seconds he was looking down at his skin, all the familiar lines and colors, and something new. Numbers jotted next to his white tulip. 7, to be exact. A phone number.

  
His cry of ‘yes!’ could be heard down the whole block.


End file.
